


Lost Art

by Sp00py



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Angst, Bendy and the Ink Machine Novel: Dreams Come to Life, Gen, Holocaust, Horror, PTSD, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:14:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23935174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sp00py/pseuds/Sp00py
Summary: Buddy's grandpa knows Joey Drew has something to do with his grandson's disappearance. And he's going to find out what.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I went into _Dreams Come To Life_ to learn about Buddy and fell in love with his grandpa instead. RIP, grandpa

My grandson is missing. His mother, my dear, overworked daughter, cries daily. She sleeps in his bed, and I’ve taken the couch. She wants to be close to his scent, his memory. She hopes he’ll return.

I’m so very, very afraid that he can’t.

I still feel the tendrils of ink on my old flesh, icy cold like the nights in that place. Burning hot like the numbers scarred into my flesh by a very different but just as malevolent ink.

I was old when they came for us. Packed us away on the trains, shipped us to hell itself. It’s hard to remind myself that I’m not there anymore. I’m in America. I’m safe. The war is won, though so many I knew and loved have been lost.

I don’t want to lose another. Daniel — Buddy — didn’t trust me when I first arrived, barely able to speak (my tongue still trips over all these strange words, though I’ve grown to love _The Little Prince_ ), but art is universal. It bridged the gap between us, let me focus on the present and not the dark corners of my mind that makes it hard to sleep, hard to wake.

The police do not care about us poor immigrants. They take our statements, write their reports, and nothing happens. Buddy isn’t found. I suspect he wasn’t even looked for.

But though I cannot speak much of this country’s tongue, I can listen. I can read. I can gather threads and follow them back to one place. Joey Drew Studios. Artists in the United States are not respected without galleries hosting them, so they fall prey to those with money. Buddy is an artist, but that Joey Drew is only an artist of scams. Overworks his employees, expects far more than they should ever have to give, only to steal from them.

I’ve seen that man’s hands. He has never created anything beautiful in his life. I dread to think of my grandson in his clutches.

If he won’t let Buddy return home, then I shall have to go retrieve him, myself. Though people think I’m old, and frail, and dottering, I have stood against monsters in the shapes of men. Joey Drew does not frighten me.

So I go to his studio once more.

It looks much the same as it did last time, but with a more subdued air. It sounds different, too. Something old churns inside. Something strange. The hairs on my arms raise in alert. Nobody else in the reception area seems affected. I’m sure they are, though. They’ve simply never felt true dread, so don’t know what it means. There is something very wrong here, an invisible miasm lingering in every crevice. Instead of ignoring the warnings my body is sending, I heed them and tread cautiously.

The receptionist barely acknowledges me as I approach, trying to form my thoughts into English words. “Mr. Drew?” I ask. I sound so much more timid and unsure than I am, and I hate how my lack of English makes people assume I’m senile or stupid simply for not knowing their language.

She glances up, and I already see those same judgments forming in her mind. “He’s busy right now, sir. Do you have an appointment?”

Appointment, appointment… I shake my head. “Need to see.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but he’s _busy_.” She says the last word slower, like I didn’t understand it the first time.

“See. Now. About Buddy.” I try to put force into the unfamiliar shapes of the words, this time. She scowls at me. I scowl right back. “Missing. He is missing.”

There’s a brief look of panic at the word. I’ve read the newspapers, articles tucked away in the entertainment pages about the missing employees of Joey Drew Studios. It’s attention, but not the kind of attention they want, overshadowing a new theme park they are working on, whatever that is.

“Sir, if you don’t leave right now, I’ll have security escort you out.”

Security. I know who she means. That janitor.

We’re drawing a small crowd, like last time, but this time I won’t be pulled away by my well-meaning grandson. I’ll stay until I see who I came here to see.

“Ah, no need for that!” a familiar, syrupy voice says. I only met him once, but his voice is uniquely slimy. As though summoned by his own, vainglorious (and probably fake) name, Joey Drew materializes at my elbow. He grips my upper arm, as though ready to march me out of the building himself.

“You’re poor Buddy’s grandfather, correct?” he asks, “Such a shame, such talent. I do hope they find him.”

“And others,” I remind him. Joey’s grip tightens.

“You wanted to speak to me, right? Well, let’s go to my office and we can talk.”

The receptionist doesn’t look pleased that Mr. Drew is overstepping her, but she lets it go, and lets me go. He leads me to an elevator. His hand on my arm is still squeezing painfully tight.

The elevator closes and begins to move, rattling and heaving like a dying creature. My throat closes up. I see the doors of a train car closing, the lumbering movements and the sway of the world moving away though I'm not moving at all. Not of my own volition. I swallow down the panic. It’s oppressively warm, even without the dozens of other huddled souls crowded close, sobbing and whispering around me.

I say nothing as we ascend. Mr. Drew doesn’t either, which seems to make him uncomfortable. A man unaccustomed to silence, especially when it’s his own voice he loves to hear. But I am staring at him, and I can practically see the film reels that make up his logo in his mind, turning. Thinking. 

The agonizingly slow crawl ends, the doors drag themselves open. Mr. Drew lets me go and walks purposefully toward another woman at a desk. She snaps to attention like a soldier. I trail behind.

“Betty, clear my appointments.”

“Sir, you have Mr. Piedmont --”

“What did I say, Betty?” Mr. Drew says, and though I can’t see his face, Betty’s response has an undercurrent of fear. Mr. Drew is one of those who hates repeating himself. He’d make a terrible teacher, much as he makes a very poor employer.

“I’ll call him.”

“Thank you.”

Mr. Drew leads me into his office, and gestures for me to take a seat. He takes his own imposing seat on the other side and reaches into a lower drawer, straightening with a bottle in his grip.

“Brandy?”

I shake my head. He pours himself two fingers and tosses it back, before pouring even more.

“Now, Mister…”

“Unger.”

“Mr. Unger. Buddy’s grandfather. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Buddy missing.”

“Yes, a shame, but the police already interviewed my staff.”

“You.”

“Me?” He looks affronted. Unconcerned, but insulted that I suspected him. “You think I had something to do with it? He’s a young man, Mr. Unger. Do you remember being young? And not entirely trustworthy, might I add. He stole supplies practically within his first week. I imagine he got mixed up in some bad business.”

I am silent, working out Mr. Drew’s fast speech. It’s all nonsense, even once I do understand the words. Buddy is no criminal. Mr. Drew takes my lack of response as agreement, or at least consideration, and continues unprompted.

“So you see, I certainly can’t be to blame for how he was raised. I gave him a chance and, well, some people just don’t appreciate the risks I take for them.”

The idea that my daughter raised a hooligan raises my hackles, so no more beating the bush. “Ink. Your ink.”

A flicker of panic, like when I said ‘missing’ to the receptionist. “My ink?”

“It wrong. It… moves…” I say the final word with undisguised disgust, remembering it crawling across my flesh, like slugs. “Leaves paper.”

Mr. Drew smiles, but his eyes are wide with fear. “That’s certainly a fanciful description,” he says. His words crawl like his ink. Slimy. “But those are simply cartoons. Cartoons move.”

I glare. He is taking me for a fool. “Not cartoons. Off page. Onto people. Kill.”

“That’s, hahah! That’s absurd. I think you’re confused, Mr. Unger. You’re probably very unfamiliar with the artistic process, but --”

“I am artist. Know ink. Know what it is not to do.”

Mercurial as a cat, Mr. Drew’s demeanor changes. Still wary, but intrigued. I don’t like it. I don’t trust it. “You’re an artist, you say?”

I nod. “Taught Buddy,” I can’t help but say, a flicker of warmth and pride at how much he had progressed, though it’s dampened by the fact that art somehow got him into this mess.

“Very talented boy,” Mr. Drew says. “Such a shame.” He said that already, and it does nothing to get into my good graces to repeat it again. Especially after calling Buddy a criminal. Every word Mr. Drew says is full of disingenuity.

“I was hoping he would move up from… gofer to animator one day, you know,” Mr. Drew says, stumbling only slightly over remembering Buddy’s job. “We always need more artists.”

I hold my tongue on why I think that might be. I’m not here to criticize his methods, just get answers.

“Are you in need of work, Mr. Unger?”

"What happen to Buddy?” I prompt.

“Ah,” Mr. Drew says, as though he’d completely forgotten I’m not here for an interview. “It’s quite marvelous if I do say so myself.”

“He is here?”

“...In a way, yes.”

“You trap him.”

Mr. Drew laughs at that, but it’s flat and dead. “You are a very perceptive man, Mr. Unger. Some would be afraid of what you think you know. But _I_ know what is really going on. Sometimes I feel like I’m the _only_ one who can see the big picture, and am practically persecuted for it. It’s so difficult these days to be a man of vision.”

I all but bite my tongue at his claim of persecution. Mr. Drew is infuriating, but I am no longer a man who simply reacts. I cannot afford to be, anymore. Especially for Buddy’s sake.

When I say nothing, he shakes his head in disappointment and sighs. He stands, and I follow suit. “Would you like to see my vision, Mr. Unger? You’ll see that Buddy isn’t _trapped_ , no. He wants to be here. He belongs here.”

He isn't dead, then. I take some small comfort in that. “Belongs home.”

Mr. Drew goes to the door, but pauses before opening it, his fingers curled around the handle. “Oh, Buddy _is_ home, Mr. Unger.”

With that, he leads me back out. Back to the elevator.

We descend.


	2. Chapter 2

We stop unexpectedly on the first floor, as though Buddy is simply in an office surrounded by his coworkers. They look up from their drudgery as we pass by, to an elevator somehow worse than the previous. It is large, with open sides, not meant for people but for supplies. Mr. Drew has a key that slots into its panel. He turns it, presses a button, and we go further into the bowels of the studio.

I already loathe elevators, with their stifling heat and the churning, rumbling noises they make. This one feels like a cage. When I am out of here, I vow to never step foot in an elevator again.

“Have you told anyone about what you think is happening with the ink?” Mr. Drew asks.

I simply scowl instead of answer, as though I could explain it to anyone with power, as though they would even believe me. I know what I know, but I also know it’s madness.

He asks no further questions, and I’m grateful for the silence. Though it does leave me with my thoughts, overwhelmingly consisting of worry for my grandson. Already, I’m tired of this machine, of this man. Mr. Drew keeps casting glances at me -- nerves, or schemes? I can’t tell. He doesn’t strike me as one used to feeling nervous, but I have put him on edge. I look down at my thin, frail hands. Artist’s hands, but also an old man’s, with no power left in them. But I am not powerless.

Whatever he is going to show me, I am ready for it. I will not dwell on all the possibilities -- that is the luxury of the young and the coddled -- but I know whatever Mr. Drew is going to show me, I will not like it. I will hate it. That is simply the sort of man he is. Selfish and short-sighted. Hurting others. Hurting Buddy.

The elevator finally, after what felt like endless floors, endless lights sliding away, stops. It dings, the doors slide open, and we’re greeted by a hallway bathed in darkness. There are lights, but somehow they only make the many shadows deeper. Make them crowd close like grasping spectors. Mr. Drew steps out, and I try to follow, but my feet are arrested, my heart pounds loud in my ears. I know this feeling. I know it all too well, like a hound scenting danger.

My neighbors, my friends, my students and coworkers disappeared down halls like these. Though this one reeks of acrid ink, the hum of electricity, the stench of… of fear, of pain, is familiar.

“Well?” Mr. Drew prompts, hand on the door to keep it from closing. He acts as though nothing is wrong. Is he so stupid, so blind? No, it’s worse than that. He doesn’t care. I’ve seen that before, in the eyes of the soldiers leading people -- living, feeling, thinking _people_ \-- to gas chambers. To firing squads. To even worse fates. He only sees his goals, not the humans suffering for them. I could not stop them before. But here…. here I have a chance to.

I step into the hall. The elevator finally closes. The weight of the world above is heavy and suffocating. I hold my breath as we pass closed doors, as though lost souls are hiding behind every one. A younger me, a more naive me, would think I was being absurd. There is nothing down here to warrant the gooseflesh on my arms and the stutter of my breath. It is simply a basement. And, as basements often are, it is dingy and dark. But while I can never be grateful for what I endured, because so many others endured worse and never came home, it has taught me so much about the world I could never have fathomed before.

Mr. Drew has his own rituals for this journey. Sometimes he closes doors that are left just barely ajar. He peeks around corners before advancing. His shoulders are hunched. He is trying to be subtle, but I have an eye for detail. Even he fears something down here. What have you done to my grandson, Mr. Drew?

We reach a door that deadends the hall, and Joey’s hand hesitates on the knob for just a second before he twists and swings it open. “He’s in here, Mr. Unger.”

He doesn’t go in first, which seems unlike a man who puts himself before anybody else. I shake my head. “You first.”

Mr. Drew laughs, and it’s hollow. “Such a suspicious man!” he says, but he does step inside. I follow. Even with the door open behind us, only a few feet are illuminated beyond that.

“Light?”

“Ah, it’s… somewhere around here.” I hear him patting the wall until he finds the button. It clicks, and a pathetic glow oozes down from a caged bulb on the ceiling. It takes several moments for my eyes to adjust, and several more to process what exactly I am looking at.

It is one of those cartoons the studio makes. What did Buddy call it? Boris the dog, I think it was. Yet not a cut-out, not a life-sized replica. This thing… it is looking at me. It’s scared. It’s alive.

My gaze swings around the room, which has clearly been converted into paltry living quarters, then back to the thing. Its black eyes are locked onto me. It looks so sad. Familiar, though how could this thing ever be familiar to me? No, it can’t be.

“Daniel?”

“See?” Mr. Drew asks cheerily. “This door isn’t locked. He could leave at any time. It’s _his_ choice to stay.”

I hear his words, but they mean nothing to me. I thought I was ready. I was ready for everything from nothing at all to a body. But no sane man could have expected this. I step forward. Boris -- Buddy? -- cowers away. I know his fear. He’s been hurt. He’s been lost. I approach slowly, disbelievingly. Surely this is some costume, some cruel trick on an old man, but my soul knows it is not.

I touch his head. It is solid. Real. No zippers. I feel tears drip down my cheeks. “Mój wnuk.” The words are barely a whisper, broken. My grandson.

The door closes behind me, and Buddy’s eyes are drawn away to it, breaking the spell. I spin around, but, unsurprisingly, Mr. Drew is gone. The door is locked, now. Because Buddy might stay here by his own decision (if this could be called his decision), but I will not. I yank the doorknob.

“Drew!” I yell when it doesn’t turn, and slam my palm against the wood. “Let mi odejść! Release! Wypuść mnie stąd!”

My cries are met with silence. Even Buddy is silent, except for the faint sound of cloth rustling and movement. Eventually, I fall silent too, and return my attention to my grandson. He frightens me in a way I did not know existed. I have faced death. I have suffered torture. I have seen the inhumanity of men, and the memories stain my skin. This… this is beyond that. This is beyond Joey Drew. I understand now his fear.

I fear this creature, but he needs compassion. Buddy must be so much more afraid. I force myself to approach and crouch before Buddy. “You know me?” I ask, keeping my voice gentle as when I taught him art. He nods, but it is slow, hesitant. “Buddy?” Another nod, a little quicker.

I smile, weak and faltering like the light. “Get you out.”

He shakes his head this time. No. Has he already given up hope? I know how it is. It’s hard to keep hope when time means nothing, when you feel abandoned and mutilated in the dark.

“Don’t belong here, Buddy. Your mother --”

He jerks away as though _that_ is the most frightening thing, knocking me down. I swallow any further attempts to sway him. Something, then, to distract us both. The door again. My art has never drifted into the escaping kind, so I am at a loss as to what to do about it. If I had some tools, I could dismantle the door, but there is little here to work with.

Buddy comes up behind me and I suppress a shudder as he looms, far too tall, far too silent. His gloved hand reaches over my shoulder and grabs the knob. I think he is going to simply test it himself, but he wrenches it, and I hear metal bending, wood groaning. The door opens. I don’t think it will ever close again.

I don’t question him, though my mind is full of them. “Dziękuję Ci -- thank you.”

I step into the hall and look for whatever dangers Mr. Drew had been searching for before. Nothing is here. I hope it stays that way.

Buddy follows me like a ghost as I go as quickly as my aching bones will allow back down the path that I presume leads to the elevator. This place feels far more labyrinthine going backwards than forwards.

I cannot find the elevator. I am sure it was not this far away, but even retracing my steps seems to get us more and more lost. Ink is everywhere, and all I can think of is it crawling on me. Trying to claim me. Perhaps to turn me into a creature like Buddy.

“Elevator?” I ask Buddy at one intersection I know I’ve never seen before. He shrugs his narrow, cartoon shoulders.

The next chair we find, I sit in heavily. I am weary. Time passes, but those grinning, staring Bendy clocks I have seen do nothing to track it. Mr. Drew is not a killer, but he seems content to leave me to die on my own.

“Food?”

A much more enthusiastic nod. I would say it is good to see Buddy happy about something, but he does not always seem present. I suspect this is the dog instead.

He leaves me, which sends a new thrill of panic. I smother it as best I can. Buddy knows this place far better than me. He’s been surviving here alone. I am the one who needs him, now. And even if his mind is elsewhere, dogs are loyal. Buddy or Boris, one of them will return.

Being alone carries with it its own dangers. My own thoughts crowd in like the shadows and the ink and grasping, desperate hands. I am back in the camps, the world gone mad, everything out of my control. I am powerless as horrors are perpetrated all around me. All I can do is wait, and pray, and hope.

Prayer. I have not done that in a while. I have never been the most devout, but trying times turns us all into believers. And this is once again a very trying time. I have none of the usual formality to it, but God, I am sure, will forgive me.

I stand and bow my head, hands folded to my chest. Though I have no sense of direction or time of the day anymore, I slip into the familiar words I've chanted often in my mind. They are quiet but reverent, a song of comfort. It has been too long since I’ve dared utter them aloud, and I sway gently as though in a soft breeze. They offer solace. It is a reminder that I am not truly alone.

When they peter away, I turn my wet eyes heavenward. There is only the dingy ceiling and ensuing silence. I hope God heard me, so far down in the earth.

Clapping, wet and sucking, shatters the quiet, destroys my solitude. I yelp like a coward and whirl around, only to be confronted by a -- is it a man? I do not know. His face is hidden by a Bendy mask, and he looks as though he’s bathed himself in ink. I can only imagine the horrors it’s wrought on his body.

“Hallelujah and amen,” he says. “Praise be our Lord, Bendy.”


End file.
